


An Object in Motion

by TheBobblehat



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Fluffy Smut, M/M, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBobblehat/pseuds/TheBobblehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written as an excuse/gift of smut for one of my favorite Tumblr blogs, The Science of Johnlock. Her headcannon was as follows:</p><p>"John wants Sherlock but Sherlock is inexperienced and awkward, so John tiptoes around the whole matter. Something happens and John goes for it and once Sherlock is in that situation he turns into a sex beast." </p><p>While I didn't go quite as far into "sex beast" territory as I probably should have, I think this is sufficient, in characters smuttiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Object in Motion

For the millionth time, John looked at himself in the mirror. Was his hair straight enough? Were his clothes clean enough? It wasn't as though he was used to this kind of thing. He'd been on plenty of dates with women - actually he thought of himself as quite the flirt - and he'd asked plenty of women out before. John liked to think that he had a certain sweet, sensible side that caught the attention of the opposite sex. A charm which he had managed to spend a lot of years perfecting. This, however, was not common practice for him. What he was about to do, this leaping head first into unknown waters... Hell, this person wasn't even a woman.

Tonight, John Watson was planning to woo the world's only consulting detective; a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, his friend and flatmate.

Talk about the road less traveled. John hadn't even been with a man since his cadet days. Furthermore, John was going into this without even the assurance that Sherlock would - whether he accepted or rebuffed his affections - take consideration to his feelings. He'd never been the touchy feely type. Yet for the sake of himself, John had to try. If anything, he at least had to know. Taking a breath, he cleared his throat and left his room.

"Sherlock?" Instantly, his friend was found hovering over a microscope. Licking his lips nervously, he approached, his walk stiff and his shoulders taut. "Afternoon-"

"Who is it this time?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Who are you planning on seeing tonight?"

John let out a deflated sigh. "That's not fair. You didn't even look at me." This is true; the detective's eyes did not leave his beloved microscope.

"The sound gave it away," Sherlock responded, his voice casual. "Your Loake brand shoes are always heavier in step than your others."

"So?"

"You never wear those particular shoes unless there's a major event happening in your life. Usually it has to do with something romantic, as you deem these situations worthy of notice." Lifting his head from the pair of microscope lenses, he gave one quick once over of the good doctor before going back to his work. "On top of that, your face is recently shaved and your hair is wetted so that you can try and keep it flat. There's a vague essence of cologne on your neck, and while Mrs. Hudson did do a load of laundry recently, you took the effort to actually iron your shirt. I'm certain you haven't been invited to a soiree at your surgery, therefore I can only assume you are planning a date. However, this isn't someone you've been with steadily. In fact, this is probably a first date. The level of care you put into dressing tells me that much. Yet this isn't someone you met at a pub. There's a nervous tick in your right pinky finger. It only happens when there's a lot at risk, but only if there's no actual danger involved. Conclusion? You're on a first date with someone you've swooned over from afar for a very long time. Do let me know if it goes well so that I can be out of the flat before you and whoever the lucky girl is decide to fu-"

"It's you."

That, above all else, made the man stop his work. Completely. Slowly, Sherlock turned to John, who looked akin to a puppy in trouble for piddling on the carpet. A long, long silence sat between them. John grew dry in the mouth waiting for something to break it. Realizing Sherlock was far too inept to begin this kind of conversation, John knew he had no choice but to continue.

"I... I wanted to... Well... Jesus, how do I start this?" He scratched the back of his neck, keeping his eyes anywhere but those sharp, clearwater greens. "Look, We've been friends for a while now. Close friends."

"The closest."

"Yeah. And... well... I dunno. Hell, we're practically married already, aren't we? I know you're not the sort to get wrapped up in it all, but I figure if I went on without even trying I'd... oh Christ almighty, stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like that!"

"It's my face."

"Then fix it."

"Fix my face?"

"Oh sod this!" Frustrated, humiliated and helpless, John turned, ready to just storm back to his room. "Forget it. Forget I said anything."

"Why should I?"

"Because you clearly aren't bloody interested."

"I never said that."

"Yeah well most people who are don't sit there staring like I've grown a second head!"

And yet, Sherlock made no effort to "fix his face." That same, blank, calculating stare sat beneath those unruly curls. Finally, when the tension grew too much to bare, Sherlock stood. Easily, he towered over the man, his shadow stretching as if it was its own entity. Reaching up, those languid fingers touched John's jaw. Immediately, John shivered. Sherlock had always been a rather alien fellow. His habits alone were enough to carry their own atmosphere, usually one that put off people in droves. All but John, it seemed. To John, Sherlock's oddities were what made him fascinating. Like an unknown species. 

Like a spark, endorphins rushed themselves through John's body. His pupils dilated. His heart rate rose. And that hand, that left hand that would hold steady in the face of sudden death, began to tremble. 

And just like that, soon their lips met in a sering kiss. 

It was sort of like jumping into the icy cold water below. Terrifying, unpredictable, and once within its depths, it numbed the body until it was made warm. Sherlock's lips were quite different than he'd imagined. The man was so thin and angular, he thought his lips might have been as sharp as his god-forsaken cheekbones. This was not the case. As the the detective lavished the man's mouth with his own, John was pleasantly surprised to find that his lips were sweet, supple, and beautiful to touch. 

John's back came to the livingroom wall. His fingers shot up to Sherlock's springy curls. John couldn't help himself. He was awash in confusion, yet his mind wasn't quick enough to catch up to his body. As they kissed, Sherlock's hands found themselves beneath John's jumper. They were pleasantly warm from being near Bunsen burners all afternoon, making John's stomach twist with glee. Finally, breaking for air, John managed to form words through his haze of excitement and surprise. 

“Wha... why are you...?”

“Let's just say I'm curious,” Sherlock explained. As he did so, his dexterous fingers started undoing the belt to John's trousers. “Sex has never interested me until recently. To be honest, there haven't been too many people who would even consider having me as a sexual partner, and those who had were too boring to hold my attention. So, if they weren't interested, neither was I.” Down came the belt. It fell with a clatter to the floor. John barely noticed. 

“And now you're interested.”

A twitching, half smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. “Now I'm interested.”

Another kiss was shared. A much more invested one this time. Wrapped up in one another, John felt the excitement of it all start to harden his nether-regions. Already his trousers were starting to droop. Letting them fall to his feet, Sherlock dove in closer, their waists pressing tight against one another. John could feel the rough zipper through his pants. Before too long, his head was back against the wall as Sherlock gnawed on his neck. 

“Do you – do you even know how to have gay sex?” Bit of a blunt question, but he might as well ask.

“You don't have to be a genius to figure it out.” 

Such an answer did not leave John feeling the most confident in the world. However, he could do little to argue. Before too long, Sherlock dragged him into their kitchen, threw off the papers and books that had since grown into their own habitat, and laid John along the table. Normally, the army doctor found himself to be rather dominant in bed. Yet again, he was faced with a very different situation. As Sherlock hovered above him, quickly pulling his shirt from his body, there was a primal glow to his face and a growl to his voice that left John rather subdued. Soon, they were stripped of everything but their boxer shorts. That's when Sherlock started looking around. 

Leaving John pining at the table for a moment, Sherlock rifled through their cupboards, until he found one of the few things that actually belonged in the kitchen. He returned with a bottle of olive oil. Setting it aside for a moment, Sherlock leaned in, their fingers lacing together and their lips crashing yet again. Sherlock's spindle body slithered itself down John's exposed front, stopping momentarily to playfully gnaw at the dead skin of his bullet wound. It sent quivers through John's flesh, a smile forming on his face .

When Sherlock arrived at John's waist line, he scraped his teeth down, down, down the fuzzy happy trail until arriving at the hem of his pants. Biting it firmly, he pulled. John's erection popped out like a blooming daisy. Sherlock took a moment to examine it with curiosity. Simply put, it was a penis that matched John in every way. It was not, in any way, a penis to be ashamed of, but it was short. Just under five inches. Yet it was thick and firm, sprouting from a bushel of dirty blonde hair. The color was mixture of tanned brown and charming pink. The lack of foreskin allowing Sherlock to see every fascinating detail. Like he was examining a science project, Sherlock ran his finger pads against the skin. It twitched in excitement. Already there was a fine wetness on its rounded head. 

From above, John felt himself grow hot. “The hell are you staring at it like that for?”

Sherlock gave no answer, his eyes peering over John's hip bone. Rising up, he undid the button of his own pants, revealing a sleek and slender erection. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock was not circumcised, his own head popping out of its pale, pink blanket of skin. Taking the olive oil, he soaked his two fingers in the golden contents before turning down to the spread legs beneath him. Before long, they were deeply embedded within his body.

John moaned out as Sherlock messaged his inner walls. A finger toyed with his swelling prostate, making his breath cut short from time to time. Soon after, he began stretching him. Sherlock noticed just how tight he was. In fact, given John's track record, he doubted if John was ever a bottom at any point in his life. That made his smirk grow. 

“Well... looks like we're both virgins.”

Scooping his legs up, Sherlock loosened him just a bit more before pushing himself inside. John let out a sharp cry, his back going rigid. It took quite a bit of doing, but eventually, their hips connected. With John clawing for breath, Sherlock gave him little time to relax. His scientific mind was starting to slowly give way to the primordial lusts of the common, red-blooded man. So, with John's knee on his shoulder, Sherlock began.

Every thrust prompted a verbal response. Sort of like squeezing a dog toy. John's eyes were closed and his jaw was slack, fingernails gripping onto the kitchen island for dear life. Seeing the discomfort on the man's face, Sherlock took an idle hand and began stroking him in tandem with his thrusting. It was enough to ease him quickly into the motions. Eventually - 

“Aghn~!” John gave out a moan of pleasure, those tightened muscles starting to relax. Sherlock, his smile ever spreading, dug in deeper. The fabric of his boxers grew slick with escaping oils, a suction sound heard every so often the faster Sherlock went. Bending forward, the detective picked up speed. Before too long, his hips were slapping up against John's body, the sweet, tight pleasure egging him on all the more. Removing his hand from John's appendage, Sherlock began to flat out pummel himself in and out of the man's willing body. The results grew exponentially pleasant with each movement.

While John's voice was relentless, Sherlock himself remained quiet. He would often go silent during long periods of concentration. Who would have thought something as simple as sex would warrant such focus? It was like he was solving a puzzle, or discovering new evidence for a most fascinating case. In a way, John was rather touched. Or at least he would be if he could devote any ounce of brain power to more than just raw pleasure. 

The table shook. Beakers fell. Sweat now perspired so rapidly that heat radiated off their bodies like steam. Between Sherlock's animalistic gluttony and John's caterwauling, it was rather lucky the walls were as thick as they were. With nothing else to hold onto, John grasped the edges of the table top, having almost completely raised his back in a beautiful arch. 

“O-oh God – oh Jesus – !”

“I'd prefer if we kept religion out of this, thank you.”

“Jeessuuussss-!”

Again, John's hands helplessly grabbed at Sherlock's hair. One of them managed to grip the back of his sweaty neck. In the heat of the moment, they shared a long, furious kiss. Sherlock never once stopped moving. Once their lips parted for air, John let out a guttural cry of pleasure, his body seizing in that one, ripe, white hot moment. 

Spurts of pretty white lines painted themselves across John's stomach. Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John ejaculated without shame. Soon after, he felt himself peaking at that final, golden moment. Every muscle in his body spasmed, and before too long, he too began to come. Hard. Body convulsing, he went still for a few glorious seconds before coming back down to reality. 

Slow and staunch, Sherlock lifted his head. The hanging light drew sharp shadows across his collarbones and facial features. As John glanced up, still battling for breath, at that moment he would liken Sherlock to an old ink drawing. As if he was crafted by an artist into majesty. 

Pulling from John's body, Sherlock watched as all kinds of juices leaked themselves to the kitchen floor. Oh well. It wasn't as though the kitchen was sanitary to begin with. Slowly, John was pulled to a sitting position, their noses pressed against one another. Through their pants, both smiled in satisfaction. 

“We should tell Mycroft,” John suggested. Sherlock's face twisted in confusion.

“What?” he asked. “What for?”

“When we first met, he asked if he should expect a happy announcement. I'd hate to disappoint.” 

That made Sherlock's smile grow wider than it had been in some time. Letting his head roll back, he let out a deep, thunderous laugh. With their arms around one another, Sherlock laid a fat kiss on John's cheek. 

“I simply can't wait for Christmas dinner.”


End file.
